The Impossibility of You
by CheshireSmiles1998
Summary: In life there are decisions we have to make. Sometimes it's easy, like picking which soda to buy at a convenience store, sometimes it's choosing the college you'll go to. Then there are the impossible decisions. The ones that leave you puzzling for hours on end, what should you do? Sometimes the answer is clear. Sometimes...Sometimes you choose the impossibilities.


I was sixteen when my parents and were murdered.

It was a strange feeling when I found out. First I was shocked, shocked at the thing that had happened, it just couldn't have happened. Then I passed to denial and anger, denial because I didn't want to believe that it had been done, that they were gone. The anger was at anyone who tried to help me, I didn't need their help because I was going to wake up tomorrow and everything would be okay again. When I felt the truth settle, I became oblivious to everything save for the agony of loosing them. The police never found the person who had done it, the man responsible for my life changing forever. My family was dead and the monster that killed them would go free.

I became very good at pretending. If someone asked how I was doing, I would plaster on a fake smile and say I was fine only to let the smile fade after they left. When I was put into the first foster home, I acted the perfect child. I was poite, quiet, I did my chores and I studied. At meals, I ate, at curfew, I slept, when someone talked to me, I answered, but I never gave anything away. I became emotionless. Numb, from the inside to just below the surface.

I was very smart and that had always been true. I was born in a women's shelter and placed immediately into the adoption system, my adoption was finalized when I was three months old. At just four months old, I began to speak, full sentences at five months. By the age of two, I was reading chapter books and starting in mathematics. By three, I was solving advanced calculus and trigonometry problems with ease. At five years old, I convinced my parents to let me test through regular schooling so that I could begin college courses, beginning with the literature courses. At the age of fourteen, I had a degree in Literature, Biological and Chemical Science, Mathematics, and History.

I took a break from my usual studies to work on music and art, quickly mastering the piano, violin, cello, clarinet, french horn, and percussion. As for art, I leaned towards drawing, often sketching my family or the landscapes around out English countryside home. When I was sixteen, I applied for an early admission to an art program in Paris. I never attended the program, instead, I began working on a degree in criminal law and psychiatric science, two things that had never interested me in the least before this point, but now held a personal involvement in my life.

I was going to do everything in my power to make sure that no one could do to someone what had been done to me. When I was just a few months away from turning seventeen, a man with white hair and a large white mustache entered my foster home. He called himself "Watari" and informed me that I would be transfering to a real home, a safe haven for 'gifted children' like myself. I had simply raised my eyebrow and inquired whether or not I would be able to continue my work in criminal studies. When he nodded, I packed my possessions and said a small goodbye to the foster family I'd been with, not really caring whether they were okay with it or not.

The drive to the orphanage, because that's what it was, no matter how they try and sugar coat it, was slow and tedious. I entertained myself with reading through one of my many textbooks. I had already memorized the majority of them, my photographic memory helping quite a bit with that, but it couldn't hurt to read through it once more. Missing a single detail could throw off an entire theory.

"Miss Winters?" I looked up at the man with clear blue eyes, my long white curls falling away from my face, "I should tell you that we will ask you not to use your real name outside the walls of the facility, for your safety."

I frowned, thinking about it for a moment, "Karma."

He looked at me for a moment, "Karma?"

I nodded, "My name is Carmella. I refuse to go by Carla, Carmel, Carly, Ella, Ellie, or any other of those annoying names. I prefer Karma for it's sound and meaning."

He took his turn to frown, "The meaning? Why would you want a name that corresponds to something seen as ill-intend?"

I gave a cruel smile, "Because it is what I am."

AN So, how horrible was it? Bad? Good? Needs improvement? Be honest with me, flames are also welcome.


End file.
